


torment (and then release)

by colferstilinski



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Body Modification, Comeplay, Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Stiles is a to-be Suicide Boy, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:13:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colferstilinski/pseuds/colferstilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek doesn't know how he started with a degree in visual communications at a university in San Francisco, majoring in photographic art, to being hired into a full time contract with a local based company in New York that maintains a well-developed portfolio for pin up photography of half-naked, or sometimes fully bare, men—well, that would be underselling as some were barely legal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	torment (and then release)

**Author's Note:**

> This is severely unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine. But, still, my little gay boys *o*
> 
> EDIT: I made manips to go with this fic aw yis :3

 

-

Derek doesn’t know how he started with a degree in visual communications at a university in San Francisco, majoring in photographic art, to being hired into a full time contract with a local based company in New York that maintains a well-developed portfolio for pin up photography of half-naked, or sometimes fully bare, men—well, that would be underselling as some were barely legal.

But he’s been doing it for the past three years, waking up at half past nine in the morning for his daily morning jog before he heads down to the headquarter for shoots that usually finishes at sundown. Today’s no different, and it feels sacrilegiously like a routine, which he’s pretty much okay with.

Laura teases him about it though, for being such an _oldie_ living in the big city instead of playing it up during the nights with a wild time at the bars, or that he has a _prerequisite time_ for when he sleeps. (Yeah, in those words. Apparently taking up law makes her use fancy words now.)

For argument’s sake, it’s usually ten at night. It’s pretty late, okay? And—fine. Derek hasn’t had a situated bedtime since he moved out of his parent’s house on the outskirts of California, just a small town up north, but it’s… nice. To not lose yourself in the rushing trickle of hours, and to be able to have the time to enjoy the gorgeous scenic route he sometimes take, walking the twelve blocks back to his apartment, just to watch the sun break over in Central Park.

He likes routine and Laura can just— _sock it._

Derek has just finished his morning run, went home to take a quick shower and also managed to squeeze in his morning espresso shot (a thirty seconds no more fill, with a packet of raw sugar and dollop of foam) at the Starbucks opposite his office building before he ushers over for work. It’s not routine, okay, Laura—it’s called _keeping_ to schedule.

He pushes the front door open, greeting the front desk receptionist as he walks in. Margaret isn’t even paying attention to him, lest the front door (as per usual), but filing her nails sombrely.

“How’s your morning going, Marg? Good?” A little charismatic smile never hurts anyone, either.

Margaret drags her eyes at him, blowing the wisps of her highlighted bangs away from her eyes and she looks too effortless in her I-can’t-give-a-fuck attitude that Derek could never master.

“The usual, man. Can’t get any worse with lesbian drama drilling into ever available orifice of my dark, dark soul, can it? Remind me again, Derek,” She drawls, twisting the filer in between her fingers. “Why do I even bother with all these pussy chasing?”

Derek makes a feeble, thoughtful noise as though he’s really thinking of a good answer to reply. He isn’t. “Uh—because it’s worth it?”

“True, true.” Margaret hums, appreciatively. “A man with wise words, you are. Maybe that’d probably get me to like dicks. We’ll see. I’ll get back to you on that.”

Derek snorts, “You do just that. Is the boss in today?”

“Ah,” Margaret scoffs. “You mean the little homo that bails on every business ordeal because he just _can’t_ deal and takes a short vacation at Mexico with whichever fling that’s going to eventually pass him STD’s? Then, nope, definitely isn’t. But—” She says. “He’s got you lined up with a newsie. I know, I know. He’s a bag of dicks that should not be inserted into any anal cavity.”

Derek likes Margaret on most days even though she clearly has no sense of self-preservation on the verbal aspect and he has been through some of it himself, however her snappy wittiness just isn’t enough to pull through the forming irritation under his skin today.

“ _Again?_ ” He grits. “It’s the second time this month.”

‘Newsie’ is just a slang word around the office for getting a new model, which really is an upgrade from ‘Nope-del’. At least it’s catching on.

Regardless, catchy or not, Derek hates getting new models, especially ones that never had previous experience for posing nude, or partially. He’ll always end up with two roles of unworthy film before the newsies start warming up to him, and by then, his arm is already aching from holding the camera up and adjusting all the equipment needed on the set that he just—can’t be fucked anymore to get a good shot.

“What do you expect? Our boss is a flaming jerk.” Margaret tries, wanting to ease his souring mood. “Nah, it’s cool. I’m already way ahead of you by cursing that he chokes on a cocktail.” She smiles cheekily. “Pun intended.”

“Good,” Derek scowls, putting his hand out. “Now, hand me the files. I’ll go get the set done up. You send him up right away, and ring me if anyone needs something, okay?”

“You know it, cap.”

-

Derek is browsing through the new guy’s portfolio as he waits around for the last thirty minutes for the appointed time of the shoot. He’s already feeling dread worrying in his veins because first impression counts, and if the model usually isn’t here forty-five minutes early, he’s most probably an asshole.

The city hasn’t done him good with the whole not judging a book by its cover but, whatever. His eyes are tracking the kid’s file and it’s typical—average, nothing outlandish.

The guy, Stilinski, is fresh into the scene, hasn’t done one professional shoot before as there aren’t any previous experiences stated nor are there samples of pictures for him to rifle through, just a simple black and white copy of his driver’s license where he’s smiling at the lenses as though he just won the lottery.

Stilinski looks way too young to be twenty—hell. He looks too averageto be considered edgy enough for the type of shoots that _Suicide_ usually goes for. The buzz cut he’s sporting isn’t too big of a seller anymore, not unless it’s an under shave.

Derek flips to the next page to read through the body modifications and art that he has done and he’s—not impressed the least when they aren’t in detailed specifications. Who the hell is this guy trying to kid by stating _‘Just a few tracking along my arms, coloured, that goes to my chest and along my ribs to the small of my back, and a few uncoloured calf pieces.’_

Yeah, the shoot is going to be _so_ much fun, he can just tell.

Derek starts pawing at his face, feeling his fingernails dig into the grains of his stubble as he internally curses at his boss when loud footsteps clamber into the set with a follow of harsh mutterings. Well, at least the kid’s fifteen minutes early—he’ll give him that, the very least.

“Um, _hi?_ ” Stilinski voices out, stepping over cables carefully across the set to him and Derek sighs loudly into his hands, hoping it conveys across the overwhelming enthusiasm he’s feeling. “I’m—uh, Stiles. The guy that’s supposed to come in and do a shoot with one, uh,” He darts to look at piece of paper in his palm. “—Derek Hale? Are you him?”

Derek looks around the set mockingly, “Don’t see anyone else here, so, what do you think, wise guy?”

“I’m thinking _someone_ had a skip day when they’re teaching manners at school.”

Derek ignores his rebuttal with a roll of his eyes—classic Margaret trait he has picked up, then takes a step back to review him.

The person standing before him doesn’t look one bit like the guy on the driver’s license picture. Instead of a fully shaved head, this guy—Stiles, was it?—has a heavy set of tousled bronzed hair, carefully worried with wet wax, and harsh burgundy highlights peeking out from his sides that creates an unorthodox vibrancy about it. On him, is a white washed crew neck with a vector design of a howling wolf that he probably bought off Top Man and rolled up beige chinos.

_Chinos._ Derek thinks he hasn’t seen a pair on someone since he reached puberty—and that was a long time ago. He’s also sporting a few surface piercings that aren’t on the picture. On his right brow, nose bridge and a microdermal piercing under his left eye that Derek absolutely isn’t staring at.

(He has a thing for them, especially on guys.)

Derek frowns instead, asking in a disbelieving tone. “ _You’re_ Stilinski?”

“Don’t see anyone else here, what d’ya think?” Stiles fronts back at him, smug, jutting his chin out that makes Derek want to punch the kid’s face in. He doesn’t though, so he’s counting it as a small victory. Laura would be so proud.

“And, it’s not Stilinski. That’s my last name—it’s _just_ Stiles.”

“Fine, _just Stiles_.” Derek counters back and he’s pretty sure he won that round because Stiles just hisses under his breath, something about assholes. Yeah, he selectively decides not to listen to whatever _Stilinski_ has to say.

-

They go through the dos and don’ts for the photo shoot because even though Stiles was hired by Jason—that’s the boss, Derek doesn’t know zilch of Stiles’ limits in regards to posing nude and he really doesn’t want to waste any more film rolls than he needs to. So, he asks.

Yet, Stiles is persistent with all his questions, saying, “I’m up for it, dude. Swear.”

Derek doesn’t believe him.

“Swearing doesn’t mean jack shit _until_ you’re faced with a camera and I’m asking you to look like you just fucked yourself dry on your fingers while trying to hold that pose for five seconds.”

Stiles blows a breath out, cheeks puffing up. “Are you usually this demanding with the other models? Or is this just special treatment for Stiles? Because I’m sensing major colleague hostility at the mo’.”

Derek cringes inwardly because, of course. Stiles is a _hipster_ —the kind that uses shortened forms of words because it’s apparently too ‘mainstream’ to use the correct, full one instead and talk about themselves in third person—or whatever hipsters do these days. There’s just one too many that walks through the doors for _Suicide_ that he can’t keep up with the underground trends anymore.

Not that he’s a hipster specialist before— _no_.

So, instead of gouging his eyeballs out from their sockets with a spoon, he grits. “ _Just_ —tell me how far you’d be willing to go for the shoot. I’m talking about skin exposure because I’m sure you know what _Suicide_ offers and if you’re not up to the platter—”

“I said it once, twice and I’m going to say it again, Hale.” Stiles argues firmly, his eyes warm with quiet fury. They look almost ashen gold under the bright set lights. “I am _all_ in. Body, soul— _dick._ What more confirmation do you want?” Then, he huffs. “Also, just because you had bad experiences previously with other models don’t mean that you should automatically cast a bad light on _me_ , reflecting it on how _I’ll_ perform.”

“I am not—” Derek starts, a little lost for words. No newsie has ever talked back at him, especially not ones who are looking to further their careers in _Suicide_. It’s different, not exactly nice or good, but oddly, he likes it. Stiles is a spitfire, and he _likes_ it. Fuck, he needs therapy. “—reflecting it on anything. I’m just trying to lessen the pain for the both of us, but mostly for myself.”

“Yes, you are, and you’re denying too.” Stiles says, unimpressed. “I’ll have you know that I did nude modelling for art classes at Tisch. So, _this?_ ” He flails his hands around, signifying the studio. “Baseball meets Ball Park, okay? Now that all of it is cleared, can we _finally_ get started?”

Derek gives a tight-lipped smile, fingernails digging crescents into his palm. “By all means, Stilinski.”

-

“Damn it. Look for the light, Stiles.” Derek directs, annoyed, as he reviews the shot he just taken on the screen of his laptop and noticing that more than half of Stiles’ profile is darkened with shadows. “It’s not that difficult, you know? It’s the big metal thing that’s producing—you guessed it. _Light._ ”

“Shut up,” Stiles snaps back although there’s no real heat. “If I further my conquest for whatever light you’re talking about, I’m seriously going to find Jesus at the end of the tunnel.”

“Oh, you’ll find more than that if you don’t deliver.” Derek says. “Tilt your head to the right a little more. No, to the right. _Right._ Oh Christ, you’re obtuse.”

“Loving the compliments.” Stiles mocks sarcastically, finally edging his head to the angle Derek wants, and exposes the lean length of his neck, freckles spotting sporadically and the tease of ink lingering just at the edge of his collarbone. Derek quickly snaps the shot, feeling a small burst of delight when it looks good.

“No, really, I do. Shower more on me, please. This may be the beginning reigns of me being a diva. You’re spoiling me, Hale.”

“You’re mouthy.” Derek tells indignantly, which Stiles simply flips him off at that. He takes another shot of it although partial of his hand is cut out of the frame, it looks nice. The heat burning in his eyes and the way his cheekbones cut dangerously with his head tilted down slightly. “We have enough close up shots—so, the shirt needs to go off now.”

“Wow, you’re a true wine and dine romantic. Didn’t know you had it in you.” Stiles teases but it’s not even a flirty instigation, not like the other handful of experienced models who presses their tits or ass against him. It’s more like a… a dig at him, which Derek shouldn’t be letting it get to him—but _is_.

“Don’t worry,” He retorts, coolly. “When I go all out, they’ll know. _Which_ , quite unfortunate for you, won’t it?” and grins a little too sharply, too forced.

“Geez,” Stiles regards that insult with a little scrounge of his nose. “And people say _I’m_ the one with dildos up my ass. They obviously haven’t met you.”

Derek glares at him even though he’s getting quickly side tracked from where Stiles is edging fingers at the them hem of shirt before he pulls it off in a swift, fluid motion, tossing it aside on the ground haphazardly. Then, it’s a bloom of colours and _art_ , spreading over uncovered inches of skin, twines around his arms and at his chest before it tapers off to his ribs.

His breath hitches, sharp, that it hurts his chest.

It doesn’t happen often, actually it never has except when he first got recruited with this job, and to be this grossly fascinated by some—stranger’s art, is weird, because he has seen it all. Models that have walked through those doors of _Suicide_ and have done multiple shoots with him that he knows every inch of their body, dips and curves and harsh planes through the lens of the camera.

But then Stiles comes in, with such ferocity and it transcends onto his skin, in his tattoos, displaying it with such reverence and pride.

“Done gawking?” Stiles snickers, obviously amused by it. “Here I thought that you were a professional.”

Derek clears his throat, and wishes away that bead of sweat that’s dribbling down his temple. “I am—I mean, professional. Yeah.” Fuck, he’s _lame_ —that’s what he is. He should have said something quirky, something that would set Stiles’ smug grin away but instead, he’s wiping his clammy palms against his jeans and props the camera on the stand.

“Alright, tough guy. I believe you.” Stiles snorts. “How do you want me? Or am I still supposed to pose on this stool?”

Derek considers it a moment and he likes the approach he’s been taking with Stiles’ shoot. Just a white background and lights because he knows situating Stiles with props would hinder the core focus that has been transferring on film which is exactly the way how _Suicide_ started. With a body mapped with tales to tell and that extraordinary beauty radiates, presents it to the viewing audience.

He doesn’t say it aloud though, thinks it might give Stiles an unneeded confidence boost.

“Just—stay there. It’s fine.”

Stiles nods his acknowledgement and then he just fucking— _delivers_. Now that he knows meticulously after Derek grinded it at him (bad choice of words) where the lights are and how his face should align so that it bounces off most of the shadows that the first shot he takes is so soul-crushingly gorgeous that Derek has to take a moment to just stare at it on his laptop.

He thinks that it is _the_ picture.

“What’s it mean?” Derek blurts and there are moments where he wants to be an ostrich to hide the blush that’s riding up his neck. Stiles perks up at his question, confusion written over his face. “The tattoo on your chest? It’s—” Different. Original. _Beautiful._ “—I’ve never seen that design on anyone before.”

It’s a bird—raven, he guesses, because its coloured black with hints of blues and purples to create dimension and it looks majestic even though he has never grouped a bird like that to be considered… majestic. But _it is_ , in a… sordid, depressing manner as the raven is twined with vines, clutching around its wings and beak, dragging it down.

A royal despair.

Stiles considers his question for a few seconds, hums under his breath. “To honour,” He says finally, quietly, and it feels somewhat like a rare confession. “And as a reminder.”

“To what?” Derek replies, matching the volume of Stiles’ because he thinks that if he speaks any louder, it may break this moment. He doesn’t know what it is, how the air between them is suddenly heavier, the camera and lights forgotten and it’s just them—existing, inquiring and telling.

“That shit happens—that _death_ happens. But,” Stiles pauses, voice wet, then tilts his body, slouching his shoulders front so that Derek sees a continuance of the tattoo. Its butterflies, tens and twenties of them, scattered and coloured in lemon yellows and forestry greens and idyllic blues. “— _But_ , it’s through that that we survive, that we… continue to live for those who has passed. An honour for the dead and to remind myself that I must continue to breathe for them—to honour my life _instead_ of reminding myself of what I’ve lost.”

Derek doesn’t know what possesses him, doesn’t know how just twenty minutes ago he wants to flick every known curse word at Stiles with intention and all purposes to annoy him but now—now he’s standing up from his chair, striding over to him, fingers itching and trembling in a way that hasn’t made its known since his college days.

“Can I—” Derek asks, mutters really, on bended knees with his hand hovering above Stiles’ chest, hoping his request for permission is being sent across because he can’t—can’t ask directly. Remember the moment? Yeah, exactly that.

Stiles is looking down at him, eyelashes casting a shadow against his cheeks, and those bright eyes are tracking him, pupils widening as Derek stares back at them longer. He nods, doesn’t even utter the softest of sound.

Then, Derek is grazing fingertips against heated skin, feeling the shiver from Stiles igniting at the tips. He’s threading the careful lines of the raven, following the cords of vines that are strapping it down and then smooth a palm out where it lingers off to his side feeling the bumps of lifted skin.

He has never, _never_ , in the past decade of his life touched a woman or man like this—so careful, a lilting hum of his heart against his chest that makes him _want_. An ache that is brewing low at his abdomen, making his dick fatten in his jeans, twitching and yearning. There’s a bright flash of arousal as he conjures fast images of coming on Stiles’ chest, of meshing come around that philosophy of death, of life—of sharing something so intimate with him that makes him full mast.

“Fuck— I,” Derek makes a rough noise through his nose, raw, and he hasn’t realized his throat is _parched_. “You’re—Stiles.”

Stiles is still, so achingly still, as his hand continues to roam on the smooth planes of shoulders, cupping up to his nape and holding it there. Derek’s afraid he may run. Hell—if he was in Stiles position, he’d be yelling molestation right now but yet— _yet_ , he’s still here, staring back at him with that cocky confidence so sure and evident at the lifted corner of his lips.

Derek kisses it away, presses a muted groan into teeth and tongue until he’s licking his way into Stiles. He tastes faintly of cinnamon, old coffee and washed out breath mints but underlay it is the headiness of a stranger’s saliva, of the swirls his tongue is meshing with his.

“Is this—” Stiles asks in between pauses as they separate for air. “—you asking me out?”

He hasn’t thought that far—hasn’t gone beyond the arousal and the need to fuck his cock between Stiles’ lips until he’s brimming at the edge that he’ll be able to coat his orgasm on his chest. But as he pulls Stiles down to the ground with him, pressing against, thigh to thigh—he thinks of them at the Starbucks opposite, sharing a blueberry muffin or Stiles in his apartment, shirtless as he reads Derek’s kindle and—fuck.

He wants it, wants to be on the other end of Stiles’ snark and sharp answers and even sharper retorts.

“Yes,” Derek hisses when he grinds his cock down against Stiles’ hip. “Take you out for coffee and—” He slides an arm in between their bodies, presses the heel of his palm against Stiles’ crotch, humming so contently when he feels the damp heat of his clothed cock radiating through his chinos. “—have you argue at me all night long, until dawn. God, I never do this— _never_.”

“Who says originality is dead?” Stiles exhales harshly and then tapers off with a soft moan that he hides into his neck when Derek squeezes his cock. “Fuck, get my pants off. My dick is going to die.”

Derek complies and then he’s undoing his own buckle and zip, taking both of their cocks into his hand as he jerks them off, hurried with relentless strokes. Stiles makes this choked off sound, so wet and raw, at the back of his throat, eyes clenching tight that Derek feels his balls draw up painfully and then he’s coming, painting white onto ink on skin.

Stiles is scrabbling at his back with Derek’s name falling silent on his lips while the hot heated trails of nails digging into his back before Stiles’ cock throbs hard against his palm, in tandem with his heart, as he continues to milk him spent.

Derek falls onto his sides, squashing his arm against his weight but he’s exhausted—watching Stiles’ chest heave quickly, as though the raven is struggling to fly away, before his breaths eventually become shallow again and the art stills.

“Go out with me,” Derek finally says when his eyelids don’t weight a ton  and he’s finally tug his jeans up so they’re not just pushed down to his thighs, flaccid cock hanging out. He presses a nose into Stiles’ temple, breathing and inhaling the scent of sweat, wax and shampoo. “Tonight—I’ll wine and dine you. No sarcasm in that.”

“Okay,” Stiles whispers into the stillness of the studio. It’s too quiet now that their breaths aren’t harsh and heavy, their hearts now silent in their chests. “Just so you know, I’ll probably be a running commentary on everyone that’s being pretentious in those fine dining restaurants. Especially when they wear fedoras and vests, or have jewellery on that looks that it may break their neck.”

Derek should be put off by that, and maybe it’s also Stiles’ way of giving him a way out now since they have shared mutual orgasms already. New York is known for delivering that isn’t it? But—he still wants, wants to peel off all the guarded wit from Stiles and been told about all the other stories from the art that is being marked on his skin.

There’s a quiet tremor in his head, the one that scares him the most, which wants to create his own mark on it and how he wants one about Stiles, too, on his skin.

He presses a kiss, chaste and lingers for a second too long behind his ear. “I’ll pick you up at eight, then?”

Stiles laughs then and his eyes crinkles that Derek kisses him again, just for that.

 -

When _Suicide_ finally posts the pictures up from Stiles’ photo shoot on their website, Derek is in Stiles’ bed, legs and arms tangled into the heat of each other’s bodies, as they witness it getting a thousand likes in less than ten minutes, steadily growing with the seconds.

Stiles grins into a sleep-washed kiss and Derek licks all the residue of their morning breath away.

**Author's Note:**

> I have went on a little hiatus because the previous fic that I wrote severely drained me and I was left with a huge writer's block after that, but I've been dabbling with some works (that would be a huge understatement, there are like five WIPs in my 'Writing' folder at the moment.)
> 
> But this story got begged to be written and I finally finished it in two days! So, yay.
> 
> Hopefully I've done some good with inked!Stiles although this fic may not be so intricate with the sexin' but it's my way to ease back into smut, hee. I love all of you, so you all get gold stars :3


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